Healing You

by Katana Collins

  “You think he would actually do that?”

  She shrugged, even though no one but Gatsby was around to see it. “I don’t know. If it’s all a ploy to win me back, show me he’s turned a new leaf or something, he might.” From the other end of the line, she could practically hear Carrie’s protective growl. “It’ll be fine, Carrie. Seriously. He’s probably just being supportive.”

  “Supportive? Or suffocating?” her friend sneered. “Remember the last event he came to—and tried to circumvent?”

  God, how could she forget? He arrived thirty minutes late and started ordering everyone around, rearranging the seating chart in a way that he approved of—never mind the fact that Yvonne had asked him a million times in the months leading up to it to have a look at her seating chart since most of the high priced plates were bought by people at his and her father’s law firm. Nope, he didn’t have time to help when it made sense. Only when it was on his terms.

  “Well, now he especially has no place. And it will be way more casual. Not his people, not his atmosphere, like the catered dinner was.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Gatsby nudged her shoulder, his tail whipping wildly around as he saw Steve come out the front door of his practice, waving at them. “Okay, I gotta go, Carrie. We’ll discuss it more later.”

  Yvonne got out of her car, not bothering to hold onto Gatsby’s leash as he bounded over toward Steve, prancing around happily.

  Steve pulled out a gourmet dog cookie from Tanja’s pet store. It was in the shape of bacon and eggs and Gatsby gobbled the treat. “I think this is the only dog that seems to look forward to his chemo treatments.”

  “It’s because you give him too many treats.” She rubbed Gatsby’s belly.

  “Nah.” Steve shooed the air. “One special treat a week can’t hurt.”

  “Except that you also bring them when we go running and when Lex gives you day-old bagels, and when Elsa gives you scraps—”

  “Well, I can’t give them all to Molly!”

  Yvonne followed as Steve led the way back to the exam room, shutting the door behind him. “So, what’s on the docket today?” she asked, taking her seat and iced coffee as per usual.

  “We’ve got a cytotoxic injection today.”

  Yvonne shrugged. “In English, please.”

  “Normally, entering the third week, I see most dogs go into remission.” Steve bent, feeling around Gatsby’s lymph nodes and taking his heart rate.

  That same tightness in her chest came back with a fury. “But he’s not yet, is he?”

  “Not that I can tell,” Steve answered gently. “I’m going to take some blood and look under the microscope later to see, but it’s still early. It can sometimes take a few weeks. And because we’re early in treatments, I’m going to hit him with the largest dose for a dog his size to try to push him into that remission for our next treatment. It’s pretty common to see side effects, though, so don’t be alarmed.”

  Yvonne took a sip of coffee to stop herself from wincing. This was just part of the process. “Okay. I trust you.” The words were out before she had time to really consider what she was saying. But even as she did—she felt the truth behind them. Felt it deep in her soul. She did trust him. Maybe not with her heart yet—but with Gatsby’s most definitely. And maybe she was getting there herself, slowly.

  He seemed just as taken aback by her comment as she did and it took him a couple of seconds to recover. “I-I, uh, okay. Well, let me get him back there—um… you, you wait here.” He turned, slamming into a tray of medical supplies—clamps, cups, cotton swabs, and a jar of dog treats, sending them flying onto the floor. “Shit.”

  As Yvonne bent to help him clean up everything, Gatsby did his part too, rushing to gobble up as many of the treats as he could before Yvonne scooped them away from him. On their hands and knees, her elbow kept brushing Steve’s and she found herself intentionally letting her pinky graze his hand. “Smooth.” She lifted an eyebrow in his direction and set the supplies she’d picked up back on the tray.

  He stood too, scratching the back of his neck. “I never claimed to be.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t being sarcastic.” She searched his gaze, but somewhere in the thirteen years that they had been separated, he got really good at hiding his emotions from her. Maybe she should take a cue from him and learn how to mask her own emotions. People always seemed to know just what she was feeling, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

  His bright eyes were focused unwaveringly on hers, and she refused to be the first to look away for once. A tingle started at the base of her neck and traveled down her spine, splitting off at the shoulder blades and continuing down to her fingertips.

  A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  “You need to stop looking at me like that,” Yvonne said after another moment’s silence.

  “Like what?”

  “You know like what. You’ve got it perfected.”

  “I’ll stop if you stop.”

  Another tingle. “There’s nothing to stop. This isn’t going anywhere.”

  His smile widened, and he leaned in, tortuously slow, tugging on her ponytail. “Gatsby thinks differently.”

  Thump, thump. Her dog looked up at them, tail rhythmically hitting the floor. Damn. Somewhere deep down, she didn’t want to admit he might be right.

  *

  The next night after work, Yvonne’s cell phone rang as she walked up her driveway. Yvonne sighed, seeing her mom’s name light up the screen. Well, she couldn’t avoid her own mother forever after that disastrous dinner last month. “Hey, Mom,” she said, digging around for her keys as she walked.

  “Hi, sweetie. I feel terrible about how we left things after Greico’s.” It took her four weeks to reach out. Then again, Yvonne hadn’t called her parents, either.

  “Me too, Mom. I’m sorry I reacted so emotionally. But you have to stop blindsiding me with these dinners. I would have been willing to listen to Sophy’s investment without you tricking me.”

  “Would you have?”

  Good question. When it came to her parents, Yvonne resisted even when they were giving great advice. She pushed a breath out, blowing her hair out of her face. “Maybe not.”

  “Your father and I just want the best for you. We love you.”

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  At the bottom of her purse, Yvonne’s fingers brushed the set of metal keys. “Jonah mentioned something about a 10K you’re doing for your rescue?”

  “Um… yeah. In a few weeks, here in Maple Grove.”

  “Oh, honey. Don’t exert yourself too much. With your back surgery—”

  “My surgery was over a decade ago, Mom. I’ve been cleared for a long time.”

  There was a tense silence as Yvonne opened the front door to her apartment. “Just be careful. Don’t twist an ankle or fall or anything.”

  Yvonne whistled for the dogs, expecting her usual greeting of all three animals charging her. Only instead, she was met with Daisy and Ruckus trotting over, ears back. “Mom, I just got home. I have to go.”

  “Is everything oka—”

  “Everything’s fine. I’ll call you later.” But everything in her still house didn’t feel fine. She didn’t wait for her mom to respond and hit the end call button, tossing the phone aside.

  “What’s going on, guys?” She bent to pet them, whistling for Gatsby. Daisy pranced at her feet, running to the other end of the living room and Yvonne followed. The first thing to hit her was the smell. Vomit. “Oh, God—”

  She rushed over to where Gatsby lay on the floor, her heart nearly stopping at seeing him there—unable to get up to even say hello to her. She dropped to her knees, ignoring the vomit only a couple of feet away and gave a sigh of relief when she saw his chest rise and fall with a breath. He was alive. Oh, thank God. She placed her hand on his belly, and he winced, looking up at her with soulful brown eyes. Steve had warned her about this. They were using a high do
sage of the medicine this week. Even still, seeing her best friend—and yes, she wasn’t ashamed to admit that this dog was one of her best friends—on the ground in so much pain was like a punch to the gut. And she wished more than anything that she could absorb some of that pain for him. Or at the very least reason with him—explain to him why it was happening and that it would get better.

  That lump lodged into her throat. Only, she didn’t know that it would get better. She couldn’t predict that. And neither could Steve.

  The other two dogs seemed to sense something wrong; where they would normally be running around like bats out of hell when she got home from work, they simply sat a few feet away, watching.

  Grabbing her cell phone, she called the first person to come to mind—Steve. It rang three times with no answer. “You’ve reached Steven Tripp, DVM,” his voicemail message said. “If this is a medical emergency for your pet, please contact the Laconia Emergency Veterinary Practices. Otherwise, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “It’s Gatsby’s—he’s vomiting. And… and lethargic.” Her voice cracked and she sniffled. “I’m sure it’s nothing. And it’s just a side effect of the chemo, but it’s really scary.”

  With a deep breath, she realized how crazy she must sound. It’s chemo. Nausea is just part of it. Besides—what in the hell was she doing calling Steve about this? Yeah, he was her vet, but she also had Carrie and Amanda and Kyra on speed dial. How many times had she called Steve after the accident in a tearful frenzy, only to be met with no response—only to be met with his answering machine? The only reason this might be different was because Gatsby was a client. She was paying him to be responsive. And it was good that he wasn’t around at the moment. She felt undone. Vulnerable. And if he was there, Yvonne was a little afraid that she may fall into his arms. She wanted to be held tonight. And not by just anyone. She wanted the familiar. She wanted Steve.

  “You know what—I’m overreacting. He’s probably fine. I’ll—I’ll watch him tonight and update you in the morning.” She hung up and dropped her forehead to the phone. Idiot.

  She let the other two dogs out into the backyard for a quick pee, but Gatsby barely lifted his head when she opened the door. Giving him a bit of extra time to rest, she cleaned up the various messes, then opened the back door for him again. And again, he didn’t even lift his head.

  “Come on, buddy. You have to go out.” She grabbed his leash from the hook near the front door and got a tail wag in response. Just a single thump. “Yeah? You prefer a walk rather than the yard?” Thump, thump. “Okay.” She called the other two dogs back inside before helping Gatsby to his feet and clipping the leash to his collar.

  His movements were slow as they strolled out the door. His normally energetic gait was replaced with a lumbering heavy step, but Yvonne didn’t mind the slow stroll. They made it about half a block before his panting grew heavier and his stomach heaved as he threw up another puddle of bile.

  Yvonne dropped to her knees beside him, running her hands against his ribcage until the heaves slowed down. “Okay, buddy. Let’s go home, huh?”

  Only, as she stood, Gatsby dropped into the grass, lying down, panting. She gave a gently tug on the leash. “C’mon, Gatsby. Home is right there.” Nothing. He just looked up at her with the most pitiful stare. That look—those sweet eyes pinged in her heart and instead of pushing him, she sat down beside him, resting her head on his rump and looking toward the sky for a few minutes.

  A shadow dropped over her, the sunset backlighting a man’s dark figure. “Everything okay?”

  She squinted, sitting up from where she lay on Gatsby. She fully expected to see Steve. But it was off. That wasn’t Steve’s voice, wasn’t his silhouette. “Jonah,” she said, stiffening and pushing to her feet to meet his stare.

  Maybe it was the fact that he was there when she needed someone. Or maybe it was the running outfit he wore. Or the way he gave her a lazy smile, like he used to all those years ago… but she was happy to see him. Happy to have someone around for this moment and to help with her sick dog. “What are you doing out this way?”

  He gestured to his gym shorts and sweaty t-shirt. “Prepping for the Maple Grove Animal Rescue 10K, of course.” He jerked a chin down at Gatsby. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think the chemo treatments are finally catching up to him.”

  A flash of concern so quick, she may have missed it had she not known Jonah better, came and went. His gaze dropped to the puddle of vomit a foot away. “Your mom told me he was sick. I didn’t realize it was so serious.” He knelt beside Gatsby and placed a hand on his neck, gently. “Can I help? Maybe carry him home for you?”

  The sight of his concerned brow, his tilted frown… she couldn’t even put into words how much it meant to her. She didn’t care about Jonah—not that way. Not anymore. But he had been a huge part of her life. And his willingness to help right now… to care about something she loved so dearly, was just what she needed. “I would really appreciate that.”

  His lips turned up, twitching into a momentary smile before he crouched beside her dog. Scooping his arms under Gatsby’s hips and shoulders, he lifted, grunting quietly before curling him against his chest like a baby.

  Yvonne led the way the half-block back to her home, and opening her door, Jonah walked the dog over to the large bed in the corner and very gently sat him down.

  “Thank you so much, Jonah.”

  “Of course.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  It was a small gesture, yes, but it brought back feelings of him controlling everything from her clothing to her hairstyles whenever they would go out. Jonah had a very specific look in mind for his future wife and he spent most of their relationship forcing her into a mold that she was never designed to fit.

  Out of defiance, she pulled her hair back out from behind her ears, letting it drape into her face instead. Clearing her throat, she stepped back, leading him to her front door. She opened it, leaving only the screen door shut in front of him. Only, he didn’t leave. Didn’t go through that door despite the fact that she was clearly saying goodbye. “Have a good night,” she tried again. His gaze fell to her mouth and he gave a sad sigh, pushing a hand through his dark hair.

  “Good night. I hope—” His voice broke momentarily before he tried again, placing a hand on her waist. “Well, I hope we can remain friends.”

  She took the moment to stare at him, skeptical. Jonah wasn’t friends with women. She couldn’t name a single female he had as a friend that wasn’t married to one of his colleagues or frat brothers from his Harvard days. “I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s who we are. But I certainly don’t want to be enemies.”

  He smoothed her hair behind her ears again. “Well, I suppose that’s a start.”

  She lifted a brow. “It’s not a start to anything. It’s how it is.”

  A look of defiance crossed his face. He didn’t believe her. He was used to women playing hard to get. He was a lawyer; he liked the fight. Liked the chase. He took a step in, sliding his hand over hips to her waist.

  Wrapping her hand around his, she removed it from her body, only he took the opportunity to link his fingers with hers, mistaking her moment of pushing him away as her desire to hold his hand. Or maybe he wasn’t mistaken and he was using the opportunity to take advantage.

  “Good night, Jonah,” she said more pointedly, pulling her hand from his grasp.

  “Good night, Yvonne. I’ll see you around.” He opened the screen door and took off for a jog down her sleepy, dusty road.

  ‡

  Chapter Seventeen

  The knot in Steve’s chest tightened along with his grip on the plastic container of food he held in his hand. He stood a few hundred feet down the road, watching as she stood in the doorway, her ex-fiance’s hand on her hip. He couldn’t see her too clearly from as far away as he was, but she seemed to be looking intensely at Jonah’s face. As much as he wanted to tell hi
mself that it didn’t mean anything, that pang of pain in his chest was pretty evident to the contrary.

  Not that it mattered. He had no claim to her. Even with how amazing the last three weeks had been—their Tuesday mornings had felt more and more like dates to Steve, but as much as they felt that way… they weren’t. They were chemo appointments. Appointments she needed to keep to heal her dog.

  But even as he told himself this, his feet took him straight toward her front door as Jonah padded away on his run.

  The door was shut and somewhere along the way she had tucked herself back inside her house. He knocked on the door. Nothing. No answer. Goddamn it. I know you’re in there, Eve…

  He knocked again, propping the screen door open with his hip.

  “What about ‘good night’ don’t you understand—oh.” Her frustration quickly morphed into surprise.

  “Expecting someone else?”

  “I—well…” She peeked around the front door down the path where Jonah had taken off running. “Did you get my message?”

  “I did. But I was already on my way over here.”

  She looked taken aback by that. “You were?” He held out the large Tupperware to her, which she hesitated before taking. “And you brought me dinner?”

  “I brought Gatsby dinner. Boiled chicken and sweet potatoes with some pureed kale and tomatoes.” Yvonne popped the lid, giving it a sniff and immediately recoiled. “Well, it’s not meant for you,” he responded, noting the way her nose scrunched when she didn’t like the smell of something.

  She stepped aside, motioning for Steve to come in. The house was so much quieter, and even with Daisy and Ruckus coming him to say hello, there was a stillness about them, too. “How long has he been sick?”

  “I don’t know. I went for a run and then I was gone all afternoon, taking care of some home visits for adoptions. I found him like this about thirty minutes ago.” Yvonne placed the Tupperware down, motioning to Gatsby’s bed in the corner, where he lay in a big golden lump. “I bought him that special food you recommended—the grain free stuff. He’d been eating it just fine until tonight.”